


Don't you ever tame your demons (but always keep 'em on a leash)

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Series: Always Female Stiles 'verse: I will run you like a thread [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha Derek Hale, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Biting, Bruises, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Dirty Talk, Dom Derek Hale, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Making Love, Marking, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Derek, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Stiles Stilinski is a Nice Thing, Stiles Stilinski is a Tease, The claiming bite makes them super horny, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26315596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: Stiles huffs. “And what am I supposed to tell my father exactly? Sorry Dad, can’t come into work, too horny to function. Gotta stay here and bone my fiance until we both collapse from exhaustion?”Derek makes a face. “Literally never say that out loud again to anyone ever, please.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Always Female Stiles 'verse: I will run you like a thread [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719364
Comments: 15
Kudos: 285





	Don't you ever tame your demons (but always keep 'em on a leash)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for all the support for this series. You guys make it very fun for me to write.  
> There was too much plot in the last one, so this one is mostly porn. You're all welcome. (I MEAN IT, THANK YOU SO MUCH)

Don't you ever tame your demons (but always keep 'em on a leash)

Stiles had expected things to be different in some way after Derek finally claimed her, like _really claimed her ,_ because it would have been ridiculously naive of her not to expect that. She’s a human, sure, but her werewolf fiance decidedly wasn’t, and with the insane amount of unknown alpha-magicky power flowing through his veins, the bite he’d given her surely had to mean something. But of course, it’s not like she got any cool powers or anything, no. Instead, she was just _really, really, really horny._ Like a ridiculous level of horny, even for her, which was saying something. Which on the one hand, awesome, on the other _\-- incredibly, torturously inconvenient._ Like right now when she’s at her desk outside her father’s office, curling her toes in her shoes and drumming her fingernails tap-tap-tap against the hardwood and trying not to remember exactly what Derek was doing to her only a few hours prior.

_“Why is this happening to me?” Stiles gasps, clinging to the strong pair of arms trying to hold her squirming form in place against the mattress. “Am I in fucking heat or something? Am I dying? Are you dying? Are we both dying?”_

_Derek groans, rolling his hips in a way that makes Stiles’s entire body shake because it rubs his cock right up against her clit, but it's just not enough, and somehow makes her want to die and scream and sing his praises all at the same time. Bastard. "You’re not dying,” he murmurs against her throat (since he’d bitten her last night, he’d barely been able to pull away from her neck for more than a few minutes), “and you’re not in heat, because that’s not a thing for us, Stiles. You’re a human, not a wild animal.”_

_“Not technically,” Stiles murmurs, Derek chuffing a wry laugh against her lips before silencing her with his tongue, thrusting it into her mouth in a dirty, bruising kiss._

_“It’s just part of the bonding. I can feel it -- can feel you,” Derek says, pulling away with a gasp before licking intently at her pulse point like it’s a totally and completely normal thing for him to do. Like he’s analyzing the taste of her or something as if he’s some kind of werewolf supercomputer and he's calculating the best way to get her off._

_“Didn’t Joshua warn you this would happen?”_

_“Didn’t Astrid?” Derek asks, eyebrow raised pointedly._

_Which, okay fair she might’ve walked right into that one, but still. Surely they would’ve thought to tell her that it’d feel like her entire being was on fire and Derek was somehow the only one that could put it out._

_“Besides,” Derek adds, bucking his hips again until the head of his cock just barely teases its way inside her, dragging a particularly sharp whine out of her throat along with it, “I think not telling us might have been their fucked up idea of a wedding present.”_

_“So this is some kind of fucked up werewolf idea of a joke? We have to bang until we pass out from dehydration?” Stiles gasps, digging her nails hard enough into Derek’s back that she’s pretty sure she might be drawing blood for real. “Because I’m not laughing. I’m dying, seriously. I think I’m really going to die if you don’t hurry up and fuck me.”_

_“And here I thought you couldn’t get any needier," Derek snorts, grinding against her in a way that is absolutely driving her crazy because it’s not enough. He’s right there, teasing her, but she’s pinned underneath him, helpless._

_“Well,” Stiles snaps, “you were wrong.” As if she needs to illustrate her point, she sinks her teeth into Derek’s shoulder because she knows exactly how that affects him, and she’s not above using that weakness to get what she wants right now. Not when not having him feels like it physically hurts._

_Derek snarls, and thank god that seems to do it, because he’s suddenly ruthless now, thrusting into her until he’s buried to the hilt where he belongs. Stiles locks her legs around him as if that could even keep him there, but she can try, goddamnit. She can try._

_“Stiles. Stiles? Kiddo?”_

Oh god, so not a word she wants to hear in her sexual fantasies (although, it’s a memory, technically), Stiles thinks, crashing back to reality with an unfortunate shudder. “Yes, what? Need something?”

“Weren’t you going to go pick up sandwiches for everybody before you left?” her father asks, peering down at her suspiciously. 

“Oh, real forward-thinking of you, daddy-o,” Stiles says automatically, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed defensively. “Send the only woman in your department to go get _sandwiches_.”

Her father’s eyes widen and he blushes. “You _offered_ this morning. You even told me I could have bacon on my turkey club for once, which was awfully kind of you considering that’s what makes it a club sandwich in the first place.”

Oh right. She _had_ offered that. Not surprising that she was feeling so generous this morning, still riding the high of all those orgasms, feeling the still-throbbing-ache of the mark on her throat hidden like a secret under the collar of her shirt. Of course, that’s long worn off now and she feels just as needy and empty and hungry for it as she did when she woke up this morning. Stiles squirms in her seat a little at the thought and is suddenly mortified to realize she’s done it again, drifted off to the definite _no no_ place in front of her dad. “I know that,” she says, getting up so quickly from her chair she nearly knocks it over. “I was just getting ready to leave. Totally going now.”

Her father is still watching her like she’s nuts, and honestly, she can’t blame him because right now she feels crazy, full-on bonkers, like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, round-the-twist, bought-the-farm crazy. Thankfully he doesn’t ask her any more questions though, and she manages to make it to the Jeep without bursting into flames, so all in all, a success. Now she just has to hold it together long enough to get dinner for her dad and the guys and then she’ll be free to crawl back into bed with Derek for at least the next 24 hours. 

She can make it.

She’s totally and completely in control.

…

There’s no way in hell Stiles is going to make it. He’s not even sure why she’d gone into work this morning. After a frantic call to Astrid, they’d been assured (through peals of mortifying laughter from Cassidy whom Derek could absolutely hear was listening through the phone) that it would pass. That it was a good thing they were feeling it so acutely. It was the mark of a strong bond, and hearing that confirmation had only made Derek and his wolf preen, and made Stiles somehow more annoyed. At him, specifically.

_“You’re mad at me because --," Derek starts, looking baffled but going on anyway, “--because you love me so much?”_

_Stiles groans and flops facedown on the bed, defeated. When she speaks, her voice is muffled by the sheets, but Derek can hear her just fine. “Yes. Because now I’m suffering because of it. I’m suffering and I have to go to work and feel like this for the next eight hours while you get to stay here and jerk off or whatever.”_

_Derek’s entire face burns. “I’m not going to jerk off while you’re gone.”_

_Stiles raises her head enough so she can turn to face him. She looks flabbergasted. “That’s exactly what I would be doing if I was you. How are you so calm? How are you able to even like, talk right now without fanging out like some horny monsterwolf?”_

_“Because I’m an adult that doesn’t possess the impulse control of a small child,” he answers coolly. It’s mostly a lie, because in truth Derek is jonesing for it right along with her. He feels it too, those flames licking at his veins, making his skin feel like it’s too thin to hold his insides, like it might crawl right off his bones if he doesn’t have her. But he’s had more experience controlling himself in that way than she does, in caging in the animal, keeping all of that rabid desire locked up tight._

_“Well bully for you, Mr. Miyagi, but we don’t have time for you to teach me your zen master ways before I have to go,” Stiles says miserably, rolling over to gaze despairingly up at the ceiling._

_“Just call in sick?” Derek offers. Stiles whines and makes grabby hands for him, so he obliges, pulling her into his lap to stroke her hair off of her forehead still beaded with sweat. When he touches her, it’s like falling into cool water, soothes the burn in a way that makes them both sigh contentedly._

_So, it’s sort of true, in a way. It’s almost like being sick._

_Stiles huffs. “And what am I supposed to tell my father exactly? Sorry Dad, can’t come into work, too horny to function. Gotta stay here and bone my fiance until we both collapse from exhaustion?”_

_Derek makes a face. “Literally never say that out loud again to anyone ever, please.”_

_Stiles whines pitifully again. “What time is it?”_

_Derek kisses her forehead, a conciliatory gesture, before glancing at the clock on his bedside table. “Almost eight? Why?”_

_Stiles sighs but doesn’t offer an explanation other than surging up to kiss him, hard, and all he does is blink at her when they finally separate after a minute or so. “I have to leave at nine, so you better get to it with the orgasms, Sourwolf. If I build up a cache of them, I maybe might just make it until tonight without exploding.”_

_It doesn’t seem like the smartest plan, Derek thinks, but like he’d ever refuse her. And besides, he never was one to turn down a challenge._

At least Stiles has the distraction of work. She might not see it that way, but Derek does, because he’s practically been digging trenches in the floor of the loft pacing back and forth since she left. Running hadn’t helped, and there were only so many push-ups even _he_ could do before his arms started to ache and he, frankly, just got bored. Reading was a bust, and sure he didn’t have a normal day job, but he did own property and investments that occasionally needed looking after, but his laptop didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of holding his attention either. Basically, he was just as screwed as Stiles was, he just happened to be a bit better at soothing the savage beast, so to speak.

It’s just doubly harder for him, because he feels her now, too. Like the pack bonds, she’s one of those threads that always dangle in the back of his mind. Stiles’s thread just burns a hell of a lot brighter than all the rest, seared into his brain, ever-present and lingering there just underneath his skin, too. He wonders if she can feel him the same way. If so, no wonder she’s suffering. No wonder they’re _both_ suffering. It feels like Stiles must be close to a breaking point because somehow that ceaseless need they’ve both been feeling since this morning has gotten more painful, a sharp and unending ache in his chest like someone’s stuck a knife in there and is twisting it. It feels like someone’s punched him in the gut and grabbed him by the dick at the same time, and he hisses when that familiar heat floods his body, boils his blood. _Stiles_ , he thinks irritably. It has to be her. 

Growling, he picks up the phone he almost never uses and dials Stiles’s number. It barely even rings once before he hears the click and she picks up, sounding strangely out-of-breath. “Yes, dear?”

Derek rolls his eyes because he recognizes the tone in her voice already (and she’s only said two words): _trouble_. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says quickly. _Too quickly_. “Just waiting outside Al’s Sandwich World. I’m picking up food for my dad, so definitely nothing. Nothing at all. Not a thing.” 

She couldn’t be less convincing if she tried, Derek thinks. “Baby, do you think you could stop doing nothing, then? Because whatever you’re _not_ doing is driving me crazy,” he says, gritting his teeth. 

…

He’s right. It’s not exactly nothing she’s doing. Because it’s like her hand’s not even part of her body anymore, because she doesn’t feel the slightest bit in control of it when she pops the button of her jeans and slides it past the waistband of her panties. When her fingers just graze her folds, she moans breathlessly, feeling that heat flare to life in her belly. It would take almost nothing to get her there. She’s so wet, has been since she left him this morning. She could be so fast, she has the time since all she’s doing is waiting. It’s dark, the parking lot is empty, her windows are tinted, it’s --

“ _S_ _tiles_ , stop.” 

“But I -- I want it so bad, Derek. _Want you,”_ Stiles whines, banging her forehead against the steering wheel with a pained groan.“How are you even functioning right now? I feel like I’m going to burn up right here in this car.”

“Because unlike you, I have a modicum of patience and a little thing called willpower,” Derek says. She can hear his answering snarl and that alone is practically enough to get her off. God, doesn’t he realize that? 

“I can be patient,” Stiles mutters, although it comes out more of a gasp because she’s rolling her fingers over her clit with metered, careful strokes like if she’s slow enough he might not notice, might not hear.

“I know what you’re doing, Stiles,” Derek says, and she can practically hear him grinding his teeth in his jaw through the phone, "and it is the literal opposite of patience.”

Oh, right. Derek can feelher, so while she’s been sitting here in the jeep practically melting from lust, he’s been at home enduring the same pain. She wants to feel bad about that, she does, but it’s hard to think much beyond _want, need, please_ , especially now that Derek’s voice is in her ear, and fuck does she love that voice. Even when he’s irritated and scolding her (that’s almost better, she thinks, because he gets all rough and growly), it still scrapes against her skin in just the right way. Always the right way when it comes to him.

“Can you blame me?” she whispers, slamming her head against the back of her seat like she could possibly knock her brain back online because she’s clearly losing it. 

“You can wait. If you do, if you’re good, _I’ll make it so good for you, baby, I promise,"_ Derek murmurs, his tone suddenly that sweet, syrupy croon that gets her almost as much as all that growling does. 

Stiles whimpers and she can hear how pathetic she sounds even to her own ears. “That’s not fair.” 

“That’s more than fair,” Derek answers. And then he actually laughs at her, which is even more unfair in her opinion, because nobody should sound that good when they laugh. _Nobody_. He has to know that when he sounds like that, he can get her to do almost anything without even trying. It’s just rude, is what it is. “And I can hear you pouting.” 

“I wasn’t pouting,” Stiles says automatically, even though they both know she totally was. _“Fine_ ,” she sniffs, “but if I don’t get to come yet, neither do you.” 

“Me? I’m not the one trying to get off in the parking lot of a sandwich shop. I have self-control, remember?” 

“We’ll see about that,” Stiles says. Derek might play like he’s always in control, but Stiles knows better. She knows _exactly_ what buttons to push and how to push them.

She only half-hears Derek saying her name before she hangs up.

_We’ll definitely see, Sourwolf._

  
  


_…_

Derek’s still frowning at his phone long after Stiles has hung up on him. Mostly out of suspicion, because Stiles is trouble on a good day. On a day where they’re both teetering over the edge and about to spontaneously combust, who knows what she’ll get up to. Although, speak of the devil, because it’s only seconds after he has that thought that he hears his text notification go off. And contrary to what Stiles might tell the pack when she’s making fun of him, his phone actually isn’t _that_ old and is perfectly capable of receiving picture messages. 

Which, honestly, he wishes at this moment wasn’t true, because when he opens them he nearly crushes his phone out of shock, because not only has he received a number of pictures from Stiles, but they’re _dirty ones_. Which, maybe he _is_ old, because the first thing he feels is extreme embarrassment, like someone might be looking over his shoulder or something, his face practically dissolving from the heat of his blush. The lightning bolt of lust hits right after, shocking him all the way down to his fucking toes. They’re not _that_ filthy, but they’re suggestive enough, especially for him because if anyone knows what gets him going it’s her: Stiles’s hand slipped into the waistband of her jeans, followed by her fingers stuck in her perfect, rosebud mouth as she presumably sucks off the taste of her own juices, those same fingers, still wet from her tongue and tracing the pinkish-white, freshly scarred bite on her sharp collarbone, that flawless, shining imprint of his teeth. 

With a groan, he flops back against the couch before tossing his phone across the room and covering his face with his hands. If he can’t see anything, maybe he can scrub those photos from his brain and ignore the fact that he’s painfully hard now, his fingers itching to pop their claws, that he's clenching his teeth so tightly to try to keep his fangs sheathed in his gums that he actually tastes blood in his mouth. He really should have anticipated this. Because when does Stiles ever play fair? The only comfort Derek finds in the next hour while he waits for her to walk through the door is that she’s out there in as much pain as he is, has to be, because he wants her all the time, but he’s not sure he’s ever wanted her as badly as he does right now. So much so that he can practically already taste her in his mouth, feel her touch on his skin.

_God, he’s going to ruin her._

...

Okay, so maybe she doesn’t play fair, but fair is overrated. At least that’s the thought she’d had when she’d sent the pictures. It hadn’t really occurred to her that the whole _feeling_ each other thing might go both ways. Because it’s barely seconds after Stiles sends them that it hits her, what he must have been feeling when he’d called her -- a paralyzing tightness in her chest and a pain in her stomach that is so sudden and sharp that she actually cries out. _Well,_ Stiles thinks, white-knuckling the steering wheel the entire way back to the station, karma was kind of an uppity little bitch, wasn’t she? 

“Honey, are you okay?” Her father asks, leaning against the door of his office, watching her intently as she practically drags herself back to her desk to get the rest of her things. 

Okay is sort of relative, Stiles thinks, because she’s definitely pale and sweaty and shaky but she will absolutely choose to lay down and die here before she ever tells her father _literally anything_ about Derek and her and ugh, god, _that_. Still, she’s slinging her backpack over her shoulders and halfway to the door when she realizes she hasn’t answered him, and she doesn’t even have to look to feel his eyes boring accusingly into the back of her head.

“I’m fine!” She squeaks, turning on her heel, and yep, might’ve overdone it on the enthusiasm because her dad’s eyes are narrowing and he just looks extra suspicious now instead of just the everyday, run-of-the-mill, when-Stiles-is-your-daughter kind he normally radiates. 

“Yeah, I’m convinced,” her father says, peering down at her, arms crossed skeptically. And then Stiles watches, confused, as her father’s expression shifts from suspicion to some strange mix of fear and fury. “Derek didn’t--he didn’t _bite_ you did he? You’re not turning into a --” he trails off, hissing accusingly.

Stiles practically punches herself in the face she facepalms so hard. “Oh my god. _No, Dad._ Still a completely normal, defenseless human and planning on staying that way, thanks.”

Then she literally watches the tension drain out of the man’s shoulders as he visibly sighs in relief. “Oh, good. Then why -- “ he asks, gesturing vaguely at Stiles’s entire being, basically. 

Stiles groans, her answer muffled by the hand she’s still hiding behind, mortified. “ _Um...cramps_?” 

And she’s pretty sure she’s never seen her father retreat to his office that quickly.

He even forgot to grab his sandwich.

By the time Stiles reaches the loft, she’s a mess and she knows it, and she’s fully prepared to take her lumps, glad to even, especially when she knows even if she gets punished (which, fair, she maybe kind of deserves it), that’s sure to come with orgasms guaranteed. Not even Derek in one of his moods would be cruel enough to deny her now, especially if he’s feeling like this too. _Right?_ Right. That’s the comforting lie she tells herself as she staggers up the concrete stairs, a climb which she finds out is a lot more difficult when she feels like she's been reduced to nothing more than a trembling, sweat-soaked creature of _need_.

Not that it matters in the end because this time Derek doesn’t even wait for her to get to his front door. She’s barely reached the top step before strong arms grab her by the waist, and she finds herself thrown over a broad shoulder and forcibly carried across the threshold of the apartment.

“This is very _‘Me Tarzan, You Jane,’_ of you, Sourwolf,” Stiles gasps, long legs dangling a bit precariously as she stares down over his shoulder blade at that familiar swirling tattoo, and even more familiar (and appreciated) back muscles flexing with effort as she’s set upright on the ground again. She doesn’t get the chance to catch the air before Derek is on her, crowding her up against the door with his eyes already flashing that dangerous shade of scarlet. 

“ _You cheated_ ,” Derek growls, and Stiles shivers reflexively when she hears how rough his voice is already, like sandpaper against fever-sensitive skin. 

“I didn’t cheat,” she says breathlessly, baring her throat on instinct when Derek noses at the slate of her jaw, following eagerly with his tongue until he’s nuzzling behind her ear. “I played dirty. That’s not --” he bites down on that vein in her neck and her voice cracks, “ -- that’s not cheating. There’s a difference.” Besides, _look at me_ , she wants to scream. Clearly, that plan had backfired. He’s got to be able to tell, right? With that super nose of his? Christ, even she can imagine what she must smell like and she’s only got her dull human senses to rely on. Like the set of a porno probably, she thinks with a hysterical giggle that only seems to make Derek growl louder. “Please, Derek? I--"

“Need it?” Derek whispers against her ear

Stiles nods, and it’s not like she can hide it from him, the franticness of it, her need, the kind that feels like it's going to consume her. “ _Please_?” she asks again, fully aware of the fact that she’s begging already, but god, she doesn’t care. 

“Hmmm,” he rumbles thoughtfully, mouthing at her jaw, “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

 _No, no, no,_ she thinks desperately, clinging to his shoulder, practically clawing at him. _He can’t. He wouldn’t leave her like this. “But--”_

“Should’ve thought about that,” Derek says, grinning wolfishly into her collarbone before scraping his teeth over that scar that seems to burn hot under his touch. “Good girls get to come. Do you think you were a good girl today, baby?”

She frowns. “No, but--” although there really isn’t anything more to say than that, so Stiles just lets the excuses trail off into another needy whine because that’s what they are at their core, anyway. She can’t seem to touch enough of him, can’t seem to get close enough, and she wonders if it’s because he’s doing it on purpose, holding himself back from her, or if it's because she simply wants too much. She finds out the answer when she digs her fingers into his thick black hair trying to drag his mouth up to hers, and Derek’s eyes flare red again as he bares his teeth and shakes his head. 

_Oh yeah, she’s definitely in trouble._

…

They both know she could stop him, she could point blank ask him for anything, no games, and he’d give it to her. He always gives her what she needs. _Always_. Maybe that’s why there’s not a hint of real fear in Stiles’s scent as he winds that long strip of black silk around her wrists before raising them over her head and tying them to the headboard. She only watches him, wide-eyed and chest heaving, testing her restraints more out of curiosity than the urge to fight them. He can see that she’s trembling, just a little, but there’s still only the same familiar notes of lust and excitement when he breathes her in. 

“Now you’re going to be good and wait your turn,” Derek says, “since patience is something you obviously need to practice.”

Stiles doesn’t even roll her eyes or talk back, just nods with that same dazed expression on her face, that perfectly pink tongue of hers darting out to wet her dry lips. God, she must really want it bad, and Derek can’t really blame her, because so does he. He just happens to be a bit better at hiding it than she is. Her yawning pupils, the flush in her cheeks, at least they’re strong enough evidence by themselves even without his extra senses for him not to worry so much that he might be scaring her, hurting her.

 _You know I like it when you do_ , is the memory that flits through his already sex-soaked brain before he manages to shake it out like clearing cobwebs. 

“I’ll be so good for you, Derek, I promise,“ Stiles mewls, shaking her head. Derek gives her a soft smile at that, reaching out to tenderly stroke her face with his palm. When he pulls back to straddle her hips, pinning her to the bed, she whines again, presumably realizing how helpless she really is, unable to move much other than the occasional squirm, or a tug on the silk fastened around her wrists. There it is, Derek thinks, watching her with nothing short of adoration when that beautiful mouth of hers twists into that familiar pout he might complain about but secretly loves so much. 

Derek’s still smiling when he leans down to suck at his mark on her throat, nuzzling into her hair and pressing a kiss to that favorite spot behind her ear. “I know you will, baby,” he murmurs, and then the breath catches in her lungs, he can hear it as it does. When she reacts like that, it floors him every time that he gets to do this to her: touch her, taste her, take her however he wants. And _she lets him_. She trusts him, of all people, enough to let him. 

He undresses her slowly, no claws this time, no hurried movements, and he can tell by Stiles’s puzzled expression, that pinched wrinkle between her brows, that this confuses her. He knows she expects him to be as fevered and hungry as she is, and maybe that’s why he’s making a point not to be. Because Derek loves fucking her hard and fast just the way she always seems to want him to, but it’s a rare occasion when Stiles is feeling generous and patient enough to let him take his time (or, as in this particular instance, is forced to). It’s not something he’s going to waste, and he’s well aware how frustrated she’s likely to be at him by this, but they call it _punishment_ for a reason, don't they? 

“I tried to count them once, you know,” Derek muses, licking a long, slow stripe up her chest, his thumb swiping over the little moles that dot her skin like constellations on her hips and shoulders. Stiles makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a moan and he grins, scraping his teeth over her breast and making her tremble again. “But there were too many, and you wouldn’t stay still long enough. I could do it now, I bet. Since you’re trussed up so pretty for me,” he says fondly before closing his mouth over a rosy nipple, teasing it with swirls of his tongue until it’s pebbled and swollen from his attention. 

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles pleads, but he ignores her. She’s shuddering under his palms now as they glide up and down all that newly bared flesh, pale and soft and so fucking beautiful. The way he touches her, it’s not searching or desperate-- it’s just purely feeling, barely skimming her skin with his fingers, letting them dance over the ladder of her ribcage, the points of her hip bones, the cradle of her thighs. “Don’t you want to fuck me?” she gasps, bucking underneath him, though it’s mostly pointless since his weight is still keeping her still. 

“You think I don’t?”

…

The way Derek’s touching her, it’s the sweetest kind of torture, so slow and careful, and so not what she wants right now. Her entire body is ready to combust, feels like her insides are boiling over. And she knows Derek knows that, has to, because he’s feeling it too. So how is he not losing his mind like she is? She wants so hard it physically hurts, and all she feels is needy and empty and achy. How can he just sit there and be so...

“You’re so calm. How are you even, I mean, how can you -- ?” She can hardly think straight, clearly can’t even hardly talk, that's how gone she already is.

Derek’s just gazing down at her with this expression she can’t quite read. “You wanna know why I can handle this so much better than you? How I can be like this?” he asks.

Stiles looks up at him through fluttering lashes and nods. 

“Because,” he murmurs, slithering down her body to press kisses, wet and open-mouthed, all along that strip of skin below her belly button, so close to where she wants him that it’s just more torture because she knows he’s not going to give it to her, not yet. “This is what I feel like around you all the time.” 

All she can do is gape at him because if that’s true, how can he even stand to be around her without mauling her like, well, _like an animal_? Because that’s what she’s wanted to do to him since she woke up this morning. And it’s only been one day, and she already feels like _dying_. “You -- you want me that much?”

At that, Derek gives her one of those grins that’s more feral than anything, the kind that’s all teeth, reminding her that the wolf in him is always there, more than just a shadow behind his human face. “You can’t tell?” 

And then he’s flashing those eyes at her and all it does is make her wetter, make her clench down on that disappointing emptiness inside her. “Show me,” she demands, yanking futilely on her bindings because she's so fucking desperate to touch him.

Derek lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a purr before crawling up her body, his hand huge and hot as it cradles her jaw to hold her in place. His grip is bruise-tight, and she moans into his mouth automatically when he claims it, unapologetically rough. Even just kissing him feels like too much, like he’s tearing her apart with his teeth and his tongue. When he pulls away they’re both gasping, and Stiles is already surging forward to chase his mouth, hoping in vain to catch him again. “Maybe that’s all I’ll do,” Derek teases, nipping at her chin, and Stiles groans hungrily when she feels him, hard and pulsing against her hip because she wants to touch him, taste him, feel him in her so fucking badly. “Maybe I’ll just get off by myself and make you watch.” 

“ _No_ ,” Stiles cries out, wiggling so hard that the silk digs into the delicate skin of her wrists and she hisses at the sting. “I _need_ you.” 

Derek cocks his head in that infuriating way he does, still wearing that predatory smile that makes goosebumps erupt all across the back of her neck. Maybe that’s her woefully underutilized protective human instincts prickling, but her screwed up body only ever seems to read it as _lust_. And then suddenly her fingers are twitching, itching to touch, her mouth-watering as she’s forced to watch as he frees his throbbing cock and pumps it in his fist in front of her. “Is this what you want?”

Derek’s mouth falls open and his eyelids flutter shut, just for a moment, and Stiles wants to cry at how gorgeous he is, and at the sound he makes, halfway between a moan and a growl that she wishes she could swallow down as much as she wants to take his dick in her throat right now. “Yes, yes, _please_ ,” she practically sobs, fully aware that she’s shamelessly begging at this point. Fuck, she’d get on her knees for him right now and beg for it like that if he wanted her to, if he asked for it. “I’ve been good for you, haven’t I? _I was good,”_ she adds, watching him with desperately hopeful eyes. 

Something in Derek’s face seems to soften, and it makes that tightness in her chest loosen just a little bit. And then he’s close again, close enough to touch, and when he leans down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead that just makes that pain flare in her belly because it’s so tender and sweet and perfectly not enough, it nearly breaks her. “You think so?” 

Stiles nods so emphatically that her teeth knock together, and then Derek's gripping her by the hair and crushing his mouth to hers again, and that, that is so, so good because he’s sucking at her bottom lip, and then she really could weep because his hand finally leaves her hip to slide down and cup her pussy with his spread palm, thumbing at her clit. “Fuck, yes,” she gasps when he slips two fingers inside her, curling them up into that spot that makes her vision go white. “Fuck me, fuck me, please, please. _Derek_ ,” she gasps against his lips, their kiss deepening into something filthy, messy, wanton.

…

“God, you feel fucking amazing, baby,” Derek whispers against her throat, adding a third finger and twisting them just so until he hears that keening cry he’s angling for get torn from her mouth. “Is this all for me?” he asks, smirking when their eyes meet, Stiles biting her own lip greedily as she watches the movement of his hands with wide, hungry eyes. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Stiles says, arching her hips frantically against his, twisting her hands wildly in her restraints, “so get in me, _please_.”

Maybe it’s the way she’s begging, the way she’s saying his name, or maybe he finally feels like taking pity on her in her desperate state. But all of that coupled with the way she’s staring up at him like he’s her whole world, like he could save her or break her with a wave of his hand, god he just can’t make her wait anymore (maybe more accurately, _he’s the one who can’t wait anymore)._ How could he? She’s begging him so sweetly, and she feels so fucking good around his fingers, hot and soft, and squeezing him so tight just trying to keep him inside of her. Fuck.

“Since you asked so nicely,” Derek murmurs, nosing underneath her jaw and pressing a lingering kiss there before sitting back on his heels, freeing her legs from where they’ve been trapped underneath him. He doesn’t give her much time to appreciate it, because then he’s spreading them wide open with his hands braced under her bony knees. “So pretty,” he says dotingly before scraping his teeth across her knee cap hard enough to make her jerk in his grip. 

Stiles has started to tremble again, anticipation maybe, he thinks, and she might be expecting him to be rough now, bury himself in her like she’s been begging him to, but he’s slow, gentle as he eases his way inside all that waiting, glistening pink heat. They both groan at the intrusion, and Stiles makes a sound like she’s choking when he bottoms out, finally, and as cliche as he knows it is, it always, always feels a little like coming home when they join together like this. With their bodies connected in every way, his hands and his mouth all over her skin, claiming it, claiming her for his own. She’s already trying to grind up against him, urging him on, but he chooses to remain immovable, rocking into her with that same glacial pace, relishing the way she’s gripping him as he slides against her walls that are as hot and soft as the silk still wrapped around her wrists. 

“Faster, faster, _more_ ,” Stiles begs. “I want more, I need _more_.” 

“No,” Derek answers between gritted teeth, “not this time. You get it like this or not at all.”

Stiles keens brokenly at that, tossing her head back against the pillows like he’s slapped her with the words.

He loses track after that, of everything except her heartbeat, her pulse like a metronome in his head, the scent of her, all sex and sweat and need, the taste of her skin on his tongue as he licks at her throat. Every lazy roll of his hips, every time he pulls out and thrusts back inside, it feels like his blood sparks in his veins, like the bond between them is being plucked like a string with every stroke of his cock inside her. Stiles has been muttering nonsense for a while now, her eyes wrenched shut and her mouth twisted like she’s in pain, but Derek can smell her, knows it’s the opposite. Knows that she’s climbing up, up, up, so close to the peak he can taste it already on the back of his tongue.

“You’re being so good for me, Stiles,” Derek whispers against her mouth. “Always so good for me, so beautiful, so strong, so perfect for me. My perfect little mate.”

At that Stiles _sobs_ , and she’s shaking her head no, and he laughs warmly against her shoulder because he’ll believe it enough for the both of them even if she can’t. And then he feels her clenching somehow even tighter around him, a shriek getting caught behind the wall of her clenched teeth as she comes, quivering so hard underneath him he stops moving just to make sure she’s okay. Stiles clearly disagrees with this, because she’s bucking wildly against him to try to keep him from being still. _Minx_ , he thinks fondly, pressing his teeth into her collarbone and sucking a bruise into her shoulder to match the others he’s left scattered across her body. 

And Derek, god, he’s really not that far behind her now, his hips stuttering, and he’s desperate in the way he claims her mouth next, growling against her lips when he feels his own orgasm shoot through him as suddenly and brutally as a bullet shot right through his spine. 

…

Stiles should have known he wasn’t going to give her what she wanted. Still, it was apparently what she’d needed (somehow, somehow he always knows) because the orgasm that rips through her is so intense it tears a scream from her throat and leaves her whole body feeling so tingly and light that she’d feel like she’s floating above the bed if it weren’t for his weight on her, keeping her grounded. 

He’s breathing just as heavily as she is, his hands still roaming over her hips and her thighs like he’s checking to make sure he hasn’t broken her or something. She’s fine, so good in fact (which is a thought that inflames the blush she knows she’s already wearing on her cheeks because it makes her think of those mortifyingly sweet words he’d whispered in her ear right before she came) except for the fact that she’s aching to touch him and she can’t. 

Maybe he can sense that, or maybe it’s the fact that her arms are shaking hard enough to rattle the headboard because he cuts the ties with a single swipe of his claws on either side, and then he’s rubbing his warm hands over her wrists, examining the skin there so thoroughly it feels like he’s trying to look through it. 

“M’okay,” she manages to say, though she can hear how thick and slurred she sounds and knows he’s going to worry about her no matter what because he’s Derek and it’s just what he does. “It doesn’t even hurt.” Even if it did, she wouldn’t tell him because he’d probably try to do the whole pain drain thing which would be ridiculous for a thing like this, especially when the lingering ache is part of what she likes so much, about _after_. It feels...good, that little sting when she flexes her hands, her tender wrists still stiff from lack of movement. “S’too soon for your face to look like that,” she mumbles, managing to get herself mostly upright (with Derek’s help, his hands bracing her hips when she starts to wobble a little). “No frowny faces this soon after mind-blowing sex,” she grouses, poking at that little knot between his brows. Derek snaps his teeth playfully when she pulls her fingers back, and she sticks out her tongue impishly at him. 

And Stiles doesn’t even have to see his face to know the exact shit-eating-grin he’s probably wearing. She can hear it in his voice, the smug way he says it: “Mind-blowing? Really?”

“ _S_ _hut up_ , jerkface,” she mumbles, falling forward against his broad chest, sighing happily when he rubs at her back, slow, careful circles, and combs his fingers through the now-tangled mess of her hair. “How soon till we can go again?” she asks, pressing her own toothy grin against his burning skin. 

“You’re insatiable,” Derek snorts into the top of her head, “but you need water. And I’m pretty sure it’s time for the human to eat some actual food. I know you haven’t had anything since breakfast.” 

Fuck, he’s right, but how does he always know shit like that? “Not hungry,” she says quickly. “Not for food. Only hungry for --”

Derek huffs. “If you say my dick, I’m punishing you again and this time I promise you aren’t going to like it.”

Stiles frowns sulkily. “Mean.” Still, it’s like her own stomach hears him mention the word food, because it suddenly _betrays her_ , growling so loudly that even she can hear it with her weak little human ears. 

“Sorry, what was that?” Derek laughs and Stiles doesn’t really blame him when he chooses to simply carry her into the kitchen instead of trying to coax her out of bed. She hadn’t been planning on going quietly. 

Curled up on one of the barstools and clutching a giant glass, Stiles is content (for now) to watch Derek scrambling eggs for her, still feeling all dreamy and high, definitely having not quite come down from everything that came before. Not yet.

“Drink your water,” Derek says, turning his back to her to throw slices of bread in the toaster. Stiles rolls her eyes, “and I saw that.” When Stiles sticks her tongue out, he still doesn’t look at her, adding, “I saw that, too.” Then he’s bringing a plate heaped high with food and setting it down expectantly in front of her. “ _Eat_.” 

_Rude_. “Yes, _alpha_ ,” Stiles singsongs, smiling gleefully when she watches Derek’s ears go almost as red as the eyes he reflexively flashes at her. Derek spends the entire meal draped over her back, feeding her the occasional bite of food from his fingers, growling in her ear when she enthusiastically obliges with eager flicks of her tongue. It’s always a heady thought for her, the realization that she really does have him wrapped around her little finger. She really could ask him for almost anything, and he'd give it to her. 

When she’s finished, Stiles hears (or feels, rather) that approving rumble in Derek's chest and she’d roll her eyes at him again if she didn’t find him so fucking adorable. Instead, she slides off the chair and falls to her knees, looking up to see Derek staring at her suspiciously. _Why is he always looking at her like that? (Okay she knows, but still)._

“What are you doing?”

“I’m finished,” Stiles says, matter-of-fact, “so now I want dessert.”

She’s not sure the answering groan Derek gives her is more because of her terrible joke, or because that’s the moment she chooses to pull his half-hard dick out of his sweats and pump him with languid strokes of her fist. It’s probably definitely the latter, because his hands immediately fly to her hair, and he’s cursing and scraping his nails over her scalp when she licks a long stripe up his length, swirling her tongue around the head, relishing the taste of him, the weight of him.

“You’re a menace,” he growls, and Stiles hums happily in agreement, which only seems to make him grip her tighter as he bucks up into her mouth. 

She would’ve been more than happy to get him off again just like this, on her knees, bobbing her head as she works him and sucking him down as far as she can. Those noises he makes sound so good, and he always looks so gorgeous when he gazes down at her, watching her so intently like he wouldn’t look away for anything. The expression on his face when he comes doesn’t hurt either. But Derek apparently has other ideas, because he’s suddenly tugging hard on her hair until she pulls off of him, and snarling, “ _Enough_.”

The roughness of his voice, the way that devil-red bleeds into his irises, it makes her stomach flip and her pussy throb with a renewed and aching emptiness. And she kind of expects him just to yank her up into his lap and fuck her that way, but he doesn’t. Instead, he moves so much faster than she expects, making her yelp in surprise when he shoves their dishes out of the way and he bends her over the countertop, holding her down with a palm spread over her back.

“ _Derek,”_ she moans when she feels him rut up against her, rucking the shirt she’d thrown on up over her hips and pushing inside her with one fluid motion of his that knocks the breath right out of her lungs. “ _Fuck.”_

He says nothing, only snarls, but his intent is clear enough in the way he starts relentlessly pounding into her, leaning down to press the sharp points of his teeth into the back of her neck. If slow was what she’d gotten earlier, that’s not what she’s getting now, because he’s ruthless in the way he fucks her, and all she can do is take it, her hands scrabbling uselessly against the cold marble as he draws those punched-out cries, _ah, ah, ah,_ from her throat with every stroke. 

“Finally got it like you wanted, baby?” Derek asks, his voice gruff and raspy against her ear, and she can only nod desperately, trying to rock back faster and faster against his thrusts. 

“More,” she gasps. “ _Harder.”_

Derek snarls and yanks her back upright and against his chest by her hair, and that delicious flash of pain shoots through her -- feels like it goes right straight down to her clit. “ _Greedy._ ” 

And then Stiles can only whine brokenly when his clawed hand grips her throat and squeezes just tight enough to send her right to the edge. She just needs one more thing, just one. “ _Bite me,”_ she begs, _“wanna feel your teeth."_ Then she’s baring her throat, the claiming mark burning hot like a brand on her skin. 

…

God, every time he thinks he’s the one in control, she flips the script on him. Because she’s the one who’s really in charge, and he’s pretty sure they both know it. The wolf in him wants to howl, revel in the claim when she shows him her throat. _Because she’s perfect_. Snarling as he does it, he clamps down hard on that scar with his teeth. Stiles lets out a strangled scream, and Derek groans, feeling her spasm around his cock and shudder under his hand as she falls apart. 

He fucks her through it, doesn’t stop, just seeking his own release now with frantic, jabbing thrusts. She’s so wet, gushing around him, and he never wants to stop. They never cease to shock him, those moments when he realizes how fucking lucky he is because he gets to have her like this, forever. That she’s his, and most of all, _she wants to be_. 

“Love you,” he hisses. “ _Mine_.” And then he’s a goner too, growling as he spills inside her, collapsing against her back and licking lazily at the knobs of her spine until they both can finally move again. Stiles is still shaking like a leaf when he picks her up and carries her to the couch. When he pulls her into his lap, she curls against his chest automatically with a contented sigh, and he just smiles, nuzzling into the crown of her head and nosing at her hair.

She’s the first one to speak, looking up with one of those secret little smiles she always saves for him. “Can we go again?”

Derek tosses his head back and laughs. “I might be the werewolf here, but I think you may actually manage to kill me, baby.” 

“Don’t mean to,” she mumbles shyly. “I just --"

“I know,” Derek says, nudging her forehead tenderly. 

Stiles hums, pleased, and after a beat adds, “Also, I think I’m hungry again.”

“Where does it all go?” he asks, shaking his head in disbelief and chuckling, running teasing hands up and down her ribs until she squirms away from his tickling fingers. 

“It’s the Stiles paradox,” she giggles. “I want pancakes.” 

“Okay,” Derek agrees. “Pancakes it is.”

“No, wait,” Stiles counters. "Waffles. With chocolate chips.”

“Deal.”

“And blueberries.”

Derek snorts. “That’s disgusting, but I’ll do it because I love you.”

“I knew you were a Softywolf,” Stiles says with a satisfied smirk. 

Only for you, he thinks. _Always only for you._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> No, you're not crazy. There were in fact TWO Gilmore Girls references in this fic. Again, you're welcome.


End file.
